


Blood Upon These Stones

by combeferrocity



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Courferre Week, I'm Sorry, M/M, it's at the barricades so, this isn't my fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 14:57:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2072547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/combeferrocity/pseuds/combeferrocity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s blood on Combeferre’s face, the first time Courfeyrac says, “I love you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Upon These Stones

There’s blood on Combeferre’s face, the first time Courfeyrac says, “I love you.”It isn’t his own. It drips in a pretty red pattern down his left cheek, and Courfeyrac just wants to brush it away because it’s covering his favourite freckle and because it trickles like a tear. The thing is though, he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to touch Combeferre’s skin any more, or even if he wants to. He thinks Combeferre loves him too, but he loves him like he loves explosions, and recently he’s grown tired of those happening in the faces of his friends and leaving red ugly scars.

“I thought I asked you to stay at home,” Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac can’t bear the anger in the other man’s eyes. He feels like the child who refused to listen in lessons once again, except back then his teachers never cried on him or shed blood. 

“I need to help!” His voice sounds like a child’s, the difference being that when most children are close to tears it’s for a smaller reason than that their friend just died. Courfeyrac remembers hearing Jehan’s voice, and then hearing a bang telling him it would be the last time he ever heard it. “You can’t just expect me to not do anything.”

“I can and I do. You’re not helping here. You’re just wasting our time.” Combeferre remembers Enjolras’ face, the first time his angry shouts brought Grantaire to tears. He didn’t think it could hurt this much, but it does. He wants to take Courfeyrac’s face in his hands and kiss everywhere, all around his eyes and on the tip of his nose, till he smiles again. He wants to hold him in his arms and tell him everything’s going to be alright, but he stopped believing that a long time ago. Now what he wants most is to send Courfeyrac away, far, far away from the gunshots and the bleeding and the dying. He won’t let anyone else touch him, least of all death. 

“I helped move the chairs and the table for the barricade! I... I helped that man over there just five minutes ago!” Courfeyrac wonders why his words taste so much like excuses. He wanders when Combeferre started wanting to hurt him instead of wanting to hold him close.  
“Have you actually shot anyone though, Courfeyrac?” Combeferre doesn’t like the way Courf’s eyes look up at him, clouded with hurt. It’s just he likes that slightly more than the idea of those eyes never looking at anything at all ever again, of his fingers sliding the eyelids shut.  
It’s cruel to choose that question. Cruel because Courfeyrac couldn’t bear to kill anyone, and that’s one of the reasons Combeferre loves him. 

Courfeyrac doesn’t say anything in reply.

“You’re just making yourself a burden staying here. And I have to risk myself to protect you.”  
“I don’t need you looking after me. I’m not a kid, Ferre.” Courfeyrac intended to shout but he can barely raise his voice above a whisper. Combeferre would do anything to stop Courfeyrac from being hurt, he thought he knew that. But no, of course, he reminds himself. You made him think you don’t care. Perhaps that was a good plan though. Combeferre can’t help but think that the worst thing about dying is going to be imagining Courfeyrac crying over him. 

Courfeyrac turns away, whether to leave or hide the tear tracks on his cheeks, Combeferre isn’t sure. And then he runs, almost as though he’s more scared of Combeferre than of the bullets. Right now he isn’t a hundred percent sure which could hurt him more. 

Combeferre stares in horror. Courfeyrac’s running in the wrong direction. His intention had been to drive Courfeyrac away, but instead it seems he’s made him try to prove himself. Stupid boy, Combeferre thinks, and he’s not sure whether he’s referring to himself or to his boyfriend. And then he wonders whether he has any right to refer to him as his boyfriend anymore.

Courfeyrac’s trembling at the top of the barricade, but he’s standing there anyway, a gun pointed and ready. He never learned how to shoot a gun, but he guesses it’s pretty simple in theory. You just press the trigger and forget the kind of person you’re supposed to be. (Combeferre doesn’t want that person anyway, he thinks bitterly.)

It’s said that you’re more alert when you’re nervous, but I don’t think that’s true. Or maybe it is, but your nervousness places your focus on one specific thing, so you’re alert to everything to do with that thing, in this case Courfeyrac’s gun and his target, but blinkered to anything else. Unable to see, for example, the artillery sergeant on your left, the way his hands move to his gun. 

Courfeyrac’s biting his lip and giving useless butterfly-presses to the trigger of his gun. Combeferre is running and screaming, “Courfeyrac NO!” 

Combeferre remembers telling Enjolras that the man he was to shoot may as well be his brother. And so it happens again. Two men act in unison. The artillery sergeant fires his gun, Combeferre throws himself at Courfeyrac, knocking him to the ground and out of range. 

There’s blood on Courfeyrac’s hand where it scraped the ground. It’s not a very large wound though, and it doesn’t account for the amount of red seeping onto the back of his shirt. He twists his neck to see Combeferre grimacing – one hand pressed to his chest. 

“Are you okay?” Combeferre asks, and Courfeyrac is confused, because shouldn’t he be the one asking this question? Combeferre shifts slightly, moving his hand, and reveals a torn hole in flesh that was once whole, dripping dark red blood onto the floor. 

A red flower blooms in Combeferre’s chest from a black seed. Courfeyrac can’t pull it up by its stem, because that’d just open the wound even wider. He has to leave it to blossom in blood.

Courfeyrac gasps in horror. “Combeferre,” he says, “I... What? How?” Combeferre just tries to shake his head in reply and collapses onto the floor. 

Enjolras is shouting in the distance, but Courfeyrac can’t make out any of the words, he’s so focused upon Combeferre. 

“I’m... I’m sorry...” Combeferre says. His voice and his breath both come out ragged. His fingers can only manage a feeble squeeze of Courfeyrac’s.

“It’s okay. You can make it up to me later, please, promise me.” Courfeyrac smiles weakly.

“I didn’t mean it.. Not that... I would never...” 

“I know. And it’s fine. You’re going to be fine.  
Joly! Joly! We need your help!” Courfeyrac forgets that Joly’s body rests in the far corner of the Corinthe, and that so does Bossuet’s, his heart still beating but his head hanging limp. It’s funny, what sadness does to you. You’d almost rather it tore you apart because then your brain might not understand the pain in your chest and your fingertips and your lips.

“There’s nothing you can do Courf, please.”

“There has to be...” Courfeyrac can feel tears welling up in the corners of his eyes and he blinks them away.

“You don’t have to be strong for me, Courfeyrac.”

“Yes I do.”

Courfeyrac presses kisses to Combeferre’s forehead and to his lips. Combeferre does his best to weakly return them with dried lips. He wanted to taste all of Courfeyrac before he died but he doesn’t think that’s an option anymore. 

The first time Combeferre says, “I love you,” to Courfeyrac, is also the last time. His lips remain half open in death, almost as if he’s still breathing. Courfeyrac’s tears fall onto bloodied skin, so many they partially clean it of the redness. His body convulses, enough movement for both of them. Combeferre remains limp in his arms, blue eyes still wide open. Courfeyrac can’t bear to close them because he understands that means they won’t open ever again and he’ll won’t be able to stare into them. If he was Grantaire, he’d have spent hours trying to mix the exact shade of blue. If he was Jehan, he’d have written verses in their praise. But he isn’t either of them, he’s just Courfeyrac, and he doesn’t even know what that means anymore, if it means anything at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, my writing isn't very good but I'm going to try to improve!  
> Sorry if this made you cry...  
> You should follow me on tumblr for more poor writing and inane comments!  
> http://combeferrocity.tumblr.com/


End file.
